


Please

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you fall in love, Sherlock thinks, you lose a bit of yourself that you entrust to your other half. It is like falling over a cliff, and taking a chance.</p>
<p>Sherlock would know. He has done both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: I was wondering something post s3e2 if you've seen it? Or maybe Sherlock having some sort of personal issue/trouble/panic attack and the first person he calls is Lestrade and it's kind of a hurt comfort story? Or maybe a confession of Sherlock admitting he likes Lestrade? :)
> 
> It's set roughly post-TSoT, kind of. It can be S3 if you want, it can not be if you want that too. It's flexible.
> 
> If you want to prompt Sherstrade from me, you can find my minor pairs prompt blog [here!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

Sherlock’s chest hurts. He can’t breathe, or he’s breathing too fast. He can’t tell. The world feels like it’s closing down on him. Everything is crushing him. He grips the pillow tighter. Presses his face into it. No. Please, make it stop. He moves, lays on his back, stares at the ceiling. Prays for it to be over. He’s never been a religious person, but he will make an exception, just this once. Everything hurts, both inside and out. He whimpers. Please, make it stop. He can’t.

He cannot blame John, not when he doesn’t know. John does not know the power his words have. Sherlock pretends to be fine, he is fine. John cannot know the difference. Sherlock will not let him. John does not need the guilt. Sherlock does not need the help. He is fine. Even laying in the dark, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, his mind whirling, the world collapsing around him, he is fine.

John. John, John, John. The name runs like a mantra through his head. His friend, his comrade. Someone Sherlock loves. Not in the traditional sense, no, it isn’t like that. Sherlock cannot feel that. But he loves John, no matter the way, and he wants John back. He can’t, though. John is gone to him forever. He has Mary, now. Sweet, innocent Mary. She is the normal that he has always wanted, and Sherlock is left alone.

His hand scrabbles at his bedside table, searching for his phone. He dials the number out of habit, out of necessity. John doesn’t answer. Sherlock closes his eyes. Please, he thinks. Please. He tries again. Nothing. There is no answer.

He does not realize it, but he is crying. He is grieving.

Not for something that he had, but for something that he has lost. His dying changed everything. Broke many bonds he had fought hard to establish. He did not think about the impact on the others, when he died. Did not think about how much it would hurt them. All he wanted to do was save them. Protect them. Instead, he lost them all. Sherlock bites back a sob.

The attacks started not long after he returned home. When he realized what he did. How much he hurt John. Sherlock regrets it, he always will. Sometimes, at night, he will wake up, his breathing ragged, his chest painful, and he will lay there and gasp for breath and consider it punishment for what he has done. He hurt people, and it is only fair that he is hurt in return. That he atones for what he did.

His mobile is still in his hand, and after a few moments, he dials another number. He hears the familiar voice answer, and his hand is shaking so much that it is all he can do to press the phone to his cheek, cradle it close. It is his lifeline, his tether to sanity, to the real world. He will be okay, he hopes. Greg sounds irritated, at first, when Sherlock says nothing. He can’t say anything. His breathing rattles in his chest, and his whole body is shaking. He feels like he is coming apart at the seams, like he can’t hold himself together. It is strange, and disorienting. Sherlock clutches to his mobile for all he is worth.

Then Greg’s voice turns concerned. Caring. It is soft and sweet and for a moment Sherlock feels like he is melting into the bed, like someone cares, like he is loved and safe and he will be okay. The phone goes dead and he stares at it, perplexed. He wants the voice back. He likes how it makes him feel. John’s voice is different. It is strong and secure, but in a yellow sort of way. Greg is safety and security, a blanket of comfort, and for a moment, Sherlock’s hands still.

He does not know how long he lays on the bed, staring at the ceiling. All he knows is that it seems like seconds later that his bedroom door opens and Greg is standing there, concern written all over his face. Sherlock sits up, barely, and he is shaking so badly that he has to use his hands to keep from collapsing. Greg looks wrecked. Worried. Sherlock is briefly sad. He doesn’t like it when Greg looks so upset. He wants to ask why, but he cannot find the air. His breath is still coming too fast. He can hear his heartbeat. It both fascinates and scares him.

“Lay down,” Greg murmurs, and Sherlock easily lays back, his eyes on the ceiling. Greg’s voice comforts him, and already he can feel some of his anxiety unspooling. He is still shaking, it doesn’t go away quickly, but his breathing is starting to slow, and he does not feel like the world is about to end. Instead the panic is a low buzz, something he is aware of but not unduly scared by.

He watches Greg as he strips off his work clothes, changes into the pyjamas he must have brought from home. It is nothing complex, a shirt and pants, but Sherlock appreciates it. The texture is a distraction, and when Greg crawls into the bed with him, Sherlock shifts, his eyes on the cotton of Greg’s shirt. “Can you talk yet?” Greg asks softly, and Sherlock shakes his head. No, not yet. That will come in time.

Greg lays down and allows Sherlock to curl up against him. Sherlock tucks his head into the crook between Greg’s shoulder and neck, where Greg cannot see him and he feels safe. Less vulnerable. He is still shaking, still breathing fast, but it is a far cry from what it was earlier. Greg is talking to him, his voice low and soft. He is saying many things, but Sherlock is not listening to the words, just the cadence. The words are unimportant. His fingers stroke Greg’s shirt. Test the fabric. Touch it curiously. Ruck it up. Greg huffs out a laugh when Sherlock slips a hand underneath the cloth, and for a moment Sherlock smiles.

Eventually, Sherlock’s breathing slows to normal, and his mind slows down. The panic is still there - it never goes away - but it is a dull buzz, kept at bay by the soft sounds of the DI’s voice. Greg is stroking a hand up and down Sherlock’s back. He is loose and relaxed and for a moment, Sherlock nearly hurts with gratitude. He will not call it love, not yet. The thought of love still makes him hurt, still makes him think of what he lost. He is afraid to lose it a second time, for he fears it will destroy him.

“Welcome back,” Greg says with a press of his lips to Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock shivers, mostly in delight, and he curls closer. Greg is easy with him, so gentle and careful. It makes Sherlock feel cared for. Comfortable. Like he is safe, no matter what happens.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs, and he is surprised at the sound of his voice. Greg smiles, and strokes his hand through Sherlock’s hair, affectionate. Sherlock feels like he is melting. It is too much and not enough at the same time.

They lay in silence for a few moments. Their breathing is synchronised, and it is hypnotizing to Sherlock. He can feel himself letting go. Becoming sleepy. Trusting Greg with everything that he has. It is scary, the falling. When you fall in love, Sherlock thinks, you lose a bit of yourself that you entrust to your other half. It is like falling over a cliff, and taking a chance.

Sherlock would know. He has done both.

The first time, it was scary, and everything was too vivid, too out of control. It wasn’t right, and with Greg by his side, he is safe enough to realize it. He does not realize that he has tensed until he hears Greg talking to him, feels the familiar motions, up and down his back. Slowly he relaxes. He trusts. He falls. He is scared, he always is. But he knows Greg will be there to catch him. He is not afraid to entrust a little bit of himself to Greg. He knows he is safe. That Greg will not leave him. He will still be there when Sherlock wakes up.

“Do you want me to stay?” Greg asks quietly, and there is a question there. A question with more than one meaning.

Sherlock lifts a hand, cups Greg’s cheek, strokes his jawline with his thumb. “Please,” he says. He doesn’t say ‘Stay forever’. He doesn’t add ‘I love you’. He’s not ready. Those words will come in time.

For now, please will do. Greg will understand. That is what he does, and Sherlock - Sherlock loves him for it.

Greg kisses his head, his hand, and then tucks Sherlock even closer. Sherlock shifts, nuzzling Greg’s neck, comforting both Greg and himself. Then he sleeps.


End file.
